Faulty Programming.
For a long time, I've had a complex about giving presents. I often leave gift shopping until the absolute last minute, not because I'm lazy but for fear that I'll choose something that isn't good enough and cause offence. I get extremely anxious about it and second-guess my judgment. I can trace this paranoia to two events.
One Mother's Day when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided to write a song for my mum and record it on my four-track recorder so she could have a nice version to keep. I spent a few days methodically preparing a demo, recording guitar parts and then overdubbing vocals and percussion. It wasn't my finest work, but I took the time to get it right.
I can still remember the moment I played it to her. We were in my bedroom when I gave her a card and the tape. As she ripped open the package to reveal the cassette, I felt tense. I put it into my Hi-Fi and we listened in silence. Suddenly, the whole idea felt wrong. She looked irritable. And her response still hangs over me like a shadow when I consider what to give someone I care about.
She made no comment on the song and told me off for not buying a present.
When you've displeased her, there's a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Little is said directly, but you instinctively know you've let her down. And that barely perceptible switch from good to bad books is often just a hair's breadth away.
What's ironic is if I had bought her something, she'd almost certainly no longer have it, while a song lasts forever. And yet when it came up in a recent argument, not only did she not remember telling me off, she had no memory of me writing a song for her either. That hurt a lot.
A line I'd often hear was, "I'm not materialistic, but it would be nice if you bought me a bunch of flowers occasionally". She couldn't see that, in saying that, she'd essentially requested them and removed all spontaneity or the opportunity for me to arrive at the idea by choice. She may as well have bought them herself. And the benefit of hindsight reveals the pertinence of those first three words; it was as if stating she wasn't materialistic, removed all chance of it.
Another event that reinforced my ingrained fear of buying presents happened one Christmas. It was the first time I'd had my girlfriend over on Christmas Day, which meant a lot to me. I must have been sixteen or seventeen. Amongst other things, I'd bought my mum a Body Shop gift set of various soaps, bath bombs and shampoos. It wasn't amazing, but I was a teenager whose only income was a Saturday-only job, so I didn't have much of a budget.
As soon as she opened it, I knew it wasn't enough. She went quiet for a beat before disappearing upstairs in tears with her partner close behind, even though we were still exchanging gifts. My girlfriend and I were left at a loss. It was so embarrassing.
When I finally convinced her to speak to me later that day, which was a battle, she told me how upset she was that I hadn't given her more. There was no politeness or tact. And though I know retrospectively it was a horrid way to react, particularly when we had company, as far as she was concerned, I was in the wrong and she was in the right. She made a scene that pulled focus to make her the priority. And it's telling that it happened the first Christmas I had a girlfriend there with me.
These events and more have conspired to make me extremely uncomfortable about family occasions. My wife is loath to bring up plans for Christmas every year because she knows I'll clam up. She told me recently there's a physical change in me whenever the subject is broached. And like the Mother's Day incident, my mum couldn't remember that Christmas when I brought it up and shrugged it off as insignificant. Yet for me, they were formative moments that are hard to reprogramme and still affect me to this day. But how can you meet the expectations of someone so unpleasable? At least the adult me can take comfort in the fact it wasn't the presents that were the problem but her reaction to them.
